Dylan's POV
The car is too quiet after what I said. I can feel Ana watching me, but I keep my eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel. Her silence doesn't bother me. It lingers, warm and heavy, like the words between us.
I should be taking her home. Instead, I flick on the indicator and make a turn that doesn't lead there. She notices immediately. "Where are we going?" she asks. "Pharmacy run," I say simply. "You're not skipping it."
Her lips part like she might argue, but nothing comes out. Good. If it came to it, I'd drag her there myself.
The place is crowded, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, people brushing too close in the aisles. I fall into step beside her, slowing without thinking so she doesn't trail behind me. When someone cuts in close, my hand brushes the small of her back, guiding her forward. Just a touch. Barely anything. But her shoulders ease, and I keep it there a little longer than I should.
I notice the little things — how she tugs lightly at the hem of her sweater when she's nervous, the way her eyes flick to the ceiling when she's thinking. I file them away quietly, as if storing pieces of her in my mind.
At the counter, the pharmacist asks, "Do you want to add your fiancé as your emergency contact?"
"Yes," I answer before Ana can open her mouth. Solid. Unshaken. The word tastes right. Dangerous.
Her eyes flick to me, startled, lips parting like she might object. She doesn't. I notice the tiny flare of her nostrils, the soft rise of her brows — gratitude, surprise, a little fear of the weight of the word. I allow a small, private smile.
We leave the pharmacy and stop at a café. The smell of roasted beans and pastries wraps around us. I pull out her chair, order her coffee without hesitation, and slide it across the table like I've done it a hundred times before. I notice her eyes widen slightly, the subtle shift in her posture as she absorbs the small gesture. I pay attention to the way her hand hovers over the cup before settling, the faint exhale of relief that escapes her.
I study her stirring the coffee slowly, the swirl of cream disappearing into dark liquid. Finally, her gaze meets mine. "How much of my habits do you notice?"
I arch a brow, amused. "Enough."
"That's not an answer."
I lean back, giving her space, letting her feel my presence without pressing too close. "I know you stir your coffee three times before drinking it. I know you hum when you're nervous. And I know you'll claim you don't like chocolate cake, even though I've caught you finishing a slice more than once."
Heat rushes to her cheeks. "You pay too much attention."
"I can't help it," I say simply. Like memorizing her is natural, inevitable. I watch the way she absorbs it, the almost imperceptible swell of something unspoken in her chest.
The silence that follows isn't awkward. It's heavy, warm, charged. I notice her subtle fidget, the way she leans slightly forward, almost as if drawn into my space without meaning to.
Back home, I glance at the clock, mutter about heading into work. Already late. I left it all waiting just to come with her this morning. I watch her watch me grab my jacket, the way she shifts slightly, the quiet pause in her breathing. "Don't wait up," I say, but I know she does anyway.
Hours later, I return, tired but not worn down. Roll up my sleeves, set down my things, join her in the kitchen. "Dinner?" I ask, like it's our routine. "Dinner," she agrees.
Side by side, we chop vegetables, stir pots, fall into a rhythm that feels easy, natural — dangerous in its simplicity. I notice the way her elbow brushes mine, the subtle tilt of her head when she laughs. Each touch, each glance, sparks something harder to ignore.
By the time we sit, laughter lingers in the air, carried on the smell of garlic and herbs. For one quiet evening, it almost feels like this is real. Like this is home. And I don't know how much longer I can pretend it's not.
____
Ana's POV
The car is too quiet after Dylan's words. I can feel him watching me, but I keep my eyes on the road, hands tense on my lap. His silence doesn't unsettle me. It lingers, warm and heavy, like the weight of his gaze.
I expect to be heading home, but the turn he takes is different. I notice immediately. "Where are we going?" I ask. "Pharmacy run," he says simply. "You're not skipping it." My lips part like I might protest, but nothing comes out. Good. Even if I wanted to, he'd probably drag me there.
Inside the pharmacy, the fluorescent lights buzz overhead, people brushing past. He falls into step beside me, slowing naturally so I don't trail behind. When someone cuts in too close, his hand brushes the small of my back, guiding me forward. Just a touch. Barely there, but it eases my shoulders, and I realize I want it to stay a little longer.
I notice the little things in him too — the subtle tightening of his jaw when he concentrates, the way his eyes scan each aisle, careful, protective. He notices me noticing, but he doesn't stop. I file these pieces of him away quietly.
At the counter, the pharmacist asks about emergency contacts. Before I can speak, he says yes. Solid, unshaken. I feel the weight of the word, the danger in its certainty. My eyes widen, lips part to object — I don't. I notice the faint smile tug at his lips, and my chest swells with gratitude and something I can't name.
We leave and stop at a café. The smell of roasted beans and pastries wraps around us. He pulls out my chair, orders my coffee without hesitation, slides it across like it's the most natural thing in the world. I notice the subtle arch of his brow as he studies my reaction, the tilt of his head, the small, careful distance he keeps.
I stir the cream into the coffee slowly, finally lifting my eyes. "How much of my habits do you notice?" He arches a brow, amused. "Enough."
"That's not an answer."
He leans back, giving me space, letting me feel his presence. "I know you stir your coffee three times before drinking it. I know you hum when you're nervous. And I know you'll claim you don't like chocolate cake, even though I've caught you finishing a slice more than once."
Heat rushes to my cheeks. "You pay too much attention."
"I can't help it," he says, simple, natural, inevitable. I notice the subtle way he waits, watching for my reaction, the small exhale he doesn't realize he's holding.
The silence that follows is heavy, warm, charged. I notice the subtle flex of his hands, the way he leans slightly toward me despite himself, the soft intensity in his gaze.
Back home, he glances at the clock, mutters about work. Already late. He left it all waiting this morning just to come with me. I watch him grab his jacket, the way he pauses, a small look toward me. "Don't wait up," he says, but I do anyway.
Hours later, he returns, tired but not worn down. Rolls up sleeves, sets down his things, joins me in the kitchen. "Dinner?" he asks. "Dinner," I reply.
Side by side, we chop vegetables, stir pots, fall into a rhythm that feels easy, natural — dangerous in its simplicity. I notice his elbow brushing mine, the tilt of his head when he laughs, the subtle line of tension that relaxes when he's near me. Each moment sparks something harder to ignore.
By the time we're done, the kitchen smells of garlic and herbs. Its quiet. Feels almost real. How can this be not our home? It's getting hard to pretend that it's not.